


Shinigami

by TheBashfulPoet



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: AFTG Big Bang 2020, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Butcher Neil Josten, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Raven Neil Josten, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:07:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26489914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBashfulPoet/pseuds/TheBashfulPoet
Summary: What if Mary & Neil never made it out of the house? What if Nathan caught them before in the middle of their escape? What if after he killed Mary, he shipped Neil to the Nest to die or play Exy? What if Neil decided the only way to live was to become the monster his father so desperately wanted him to be?AKA the one where Neil becomes the Butcher and makes them all pay
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 48
Kudos: 220





	1. First They Burned Hin

**Author's Note:**

> Surprise! I'm not dead (at least mostly)
> 
> Oh my god it's finally here! The first chapter to this fucking monster of a story that I have ready for you guys for the 2020 AFTG Big Bang. Some of you will remember this story from Andriel Week of Summer 2019; I just couldn't get this story out of my head so I decided to write it before it ruined my life (or well more than it already has). Word of warning, this fic will get dark as we're dealing with a Neil that has aligned himself in a world filled with blood and murder and shows little remorse for either as long as it keeps him and his alive.
> 
> Hmm, warnings for this chapter include: mentions of torture
> 
> I hope you enjoy the ride this angsty fic will take you on! I promise, I'm right there with you!

It starts with red. The red of his father’s hair as it sticks with sweat to his forehead and turns a rusted shade matching the blood dripping from his knuckles. The red of Lola’s lipstick twists into a smile as she slides the knife home between the ribs over and over again. The red of his mother’s blood pouring from her body as they tear her apart piece by piece and laugh while Romero holds him down, forcing him to watch.

It’s all so red that he feels like he will drown in it — that he already _is_ drowning and choking on his mother’s screams. Because in the end this is his fault.

Nathaniel always knew he was going to leave his childhood home. Knew it from the way his mother would linger in the doorway of his bedroom when she tucked him in at night, knew it in that careful glance she would shoot towards the basement doors every time his father disappeared down its steps for hours on end. He knew it when his mother tucked a bag underneath the sink and told him to never touch it, when she placed its twin into the corner of his closet blocked by his shoes. Only when the bruises on his skin started taking longer to heal and the scars on his body grew quicker in succession did Neil know that they would be leaving soon. And when his father pulled him and two of his teammates into a small room after exy practice and made them watch as he _tortured_ a man for hours — made them watch a man beg and plead for his life while his father _smiled_ — Nathaniel began to wonder if he would be leaving dead or alive.

His answer came sooner than he thought. Hindsight tells him he shouldn’t have been surprised; the look in his mother’s eyes when she picked him up grew more crazed day after day, those lingering looks to the door turning from wistful and calculating to desperate and hungry. The calm mask she always wore affixed to her face finally broke when Nathan returned home with Nathaniel in tow after hearing a man scream his last breath. He should have known when she’d pulled him aside and asked him to repeat the number he’d had memorized for as long as he could remember; should have known when she’d made him recited it over and over again until he was blue in the face despite not even knowing what those numbers meant in all the years he’d spoken them.

Yet for all of the signs, he was unprepared for what came.

That night he’d fallen asleep with screams ringing in his ears. He hadn’t expected the hand that wrapped itself over his mouth and squeezed when he startled awake. The harshness of his mother’s gaze killed any scream that worked its way up his throat and all he could do was stare as she’d placed a finger to her lips.

To this day, it is the most vivid image he has left of his mother, the way her hair glowed white in the moonlight pouring in from the window, the way the shadows threw her in sharp relief — accentuating the cut of her cheeks and the hard line of her jaw while the light haloed behind her head. She looked ethereal and dangerous. Wild and deadly. In that moment she frightened him almost as much as his father did.

She dragged him from bed and shoved that hidden bag into his arms hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. “You will do as I say, and you will do it quietly or we both will die. Do you hear me?”

Nathaniel heard loud and clear, nodding his head as he’d bitten down against the gasp of breath he so desperately wanted to pull in.

“Good.” She’d dragged a hand over his head as if smoothing down the mess of curls tousled from sleep, a gesture she had done a thousand times over but now felt too harsh, too desperate and foreboding in the dead of night. “Change your clothes and put on your shoes, baby. We’re leaving.”

He scrambled to obey, moving across his room as quietly as possible while he tugged on the first pair of pants, shoes, and sweater he could get his hands on. The only moment he’d hesitated was when his eyes landed on the racquet resting by the door of his closet.

“ _Leave it_ ,” his mother had hissed as she reached out and gripped his wrist, fingernails digging in a little too deep as she yanked him towards the door.

They snuck through the house, carefully avoiding every loose floorboard or squeaking door hinge before they stole into the kitchen for that hidden bag. His mother slid it over her shoulders before checking that his remained firmly strapped to his back. When she’d seen it secured, she nodded her head and grabbed his hand in hers, pulling them further into the house until they came face to face with the basement door.

And Nathaniel… Nathaniel had frozen at its sight. Too many people had gone past those doors and never made it back up the stairs. Too many screams had been muffled by the soundproofing his father had installed after the last one screamed so loud it scared the maid cleaning the kitchen. Nathaniel remembered how she disappeared that night too.

But his mother hadn’t seemed to have any of those hang-ups. She’d reached for that handle like it was any other door and twisted it open, flicking on a flashlight to peer into the yawing black void. She hadn’t even hesitated as she pulled them closer to its steps.

But Nathaniel had. And it had cost them everything.

She pulled but he hadn’t budged — _couldn’t_ move himself close to those stairs. Something inside him screamed not to go, that if he did he would never return back up them. But his mother hadn’t cared; she dug her nails in and yanked him forward until he almost stumbled down the stairs.

“Never hesitate, Nathaniel.” She clawed into him. “Hesitate and you’re dead. Do you understand me? _Never._ ”

He could only nod his head in understanding at his mother’s back as she pulled him deeper into the abyss and into that sterile version of hell his father had created at the bottom. Knives hung from racks on the wall, a solid steel table taking up the bulk of the room with a dainty sliver tray sitting off to its side with scalpels Nathaniel knew were sharp enough to slip through skin like butter. However, the most ominous thing was the single drain that rested in the floor’s center, its edges a pristine silver despite the horrors it held underneath.

His mother had handed over the flashlight and guided him to point it at the cabinet tucked in the furthest corner of the room while she walked over an started sliding her hands over it’s edges until an audible click filled the dead silence. The noise relaxed the line of tension she held in her shoulders and she dropped to her knees and cradled his face just a tad too tight.

“Okay, now you listen carefully to what I’m about to say, do you understand?” She waited until he nodded. “You are going to grab my hand and we are going to run. I don’t care what you hear or see behind you, you _keep running_. Even if we’re separated. You. Keep. Running. I’ll be right behind you.”

“But-”

“ _No_ ,” her grip had turned painful, “You don’t hesitate. You _run_. Now repeat it back to me.”

“I run.”

“Again.”

“I run.”

“Good.” She draws him into her chest. “You run and never look back. And if I’m not at your side then you hide and call that number okay. Promise me.”

“I promise mom.”

“Repeat them.”

He did and the number had never felt heavier on his tongue as they had then, the sound of them almost like the evocation of a curse. Yet they settled something in her. Her eyes had settled in determination and her shoulders straightened when she stood. She reached behind that cabinet and swung it open to reveal Lola, Romero, and his father standing on the other side, the beam of the flashlight in Nathaniel’s hands illuminating their faces.

His father’s eyes had seemed to glow as bright as Lola’s twisted red smile.

“Oh Mary,” Nathan sighed.

What happened next Nathaniel wished he could forget. Wished he didn’t remember the burn of Lola’s hands as she wrapped herself around him as his mother told him to run and he was too slow to listen. Wished he could forget that sickening crack her skull made when his father slammed it into the wall and she went limp. Wished he didn’t remember the weight of Romero’s foot on his back when Lola shoved him to the ground so she could join his father in making his mother scream.

The silence that followed after was more deafening than the near hour of uninterrupted screaming.

But he couldn’t forget. And when his father turned to him with blood still coating his hands and face as he smiled, Nathaniel wondered if he would die like his mother had.

***

For a while, Nathaniel thought he did die. The world had gone blissfully black and quiet as his body floated in the ichor of nothingness. In that moment he felt nothing but _relief_. But relief was not a luxury offered to people like him. So, he fell and fell and when his body crash-landed back into his broken and tired body, he opens his eyes and feels pain.

He slides them closed once more; the mere thought of lifting them draining him of the energy he had left and sending a fresh wave of pain ricocheting throughout his body. So he lays there and listens to the world slowly fall in place around him, but where he expects to hear the low timbre of his father’s voice or the shrill of Lola’s laugh, he only finds silence and the soft whirling of an air conditioner. For a long time, he lays like that, body aching with the mere thought of moving and his mind wondering why he woke up at all. Because he shouldn’t have — Nathaniel had known the moment he took his mother’s hand in his bedroom hat if his father caught them, they wouldn’t survive it. His father didn’t tolerate the thought of disobedience let alone the act of it. Nathaniel’s body bore countless reminders of that fact, and in the ultimate betrayal of trying to _leave_ him, they had signed their lives away. Yet here he is, lying on a floor waiting for his father to finish the job.

He opens his eyes to stare at the ceiling but where there once were fluorescent bulbs hanging from concrete slabs, he now stares at a sleek black surface. His gaze follows the line of the wall but the black never changes, it just falls down the ceiling onto the wall and then the floor. He realizes then that he’s not in the basement anymore and _he’s relieved_.

Maybe he died after all and this is where he gets to spend eternity — trapped in an endless black box feeling like death is only a couple pulled wounds away. At least his father is nowhere to be found.

Hours pass before he finds the energy to push himself onto his elbows, what seems like three more pass before he crawls to a corner and claws his way onto his feet. His vision spots and his knees wobbles but he remained standing long enough to regain his equilibrium. Not seconds later what he thought of as a seamless wall split open to reveal a hidden door, and before Nathaniel can do more than press himself further into his corner, his father steps into the room, grin affixed to his face.

“Hello Junior.” He had changed his clothes, replaced the blood-soaked dress shirt with a crisp new one buttoned to his collar. “You’re awake. Good.”

He steps closer to Nathaniel who can do nothing more than flatten himself against the wall. But Nathaniel has never been able to escape his father — not all the times he had come for him as a kid, not when his mother screamed for him to run, and not now. Nathan grabs a fist full of Nathaniel’s hair and yanks him towards the door. When it becomes clear he can’t walk, Nathan drags him down the hall painted in that same monochromatic scheme as the room he’d been staying in.

Just as Nathaniel feels as if his hair will fall out, the pressure of his father’s grip loosens, and the world explodes into bright fluorescence. He falls, hands and knees taking the brunt of his weight against an unforgiving surface. Something in his ankle seems to snap and he blinks his eyes several times before the world comes back to a blurred image.

And then he realizes, he knows this place. Knows it almost as well as he knows his own bedroom.

Tetsuji stands at full height before him, shoulders drawn back in a severe stance while a cane rests lightly in his left palm as the man stares down at Nathaniel’s hunched-over form. A cool indifferent look graces his face as he skims over the boy, the look only betrayed by the flicker of disgust as they roam the smear of blood Nathaniel leaves on the court floor. At his side are Riko and Kevin, each with their own glances of disgust and interest at their old teammate lying at their feet.

“You’ve broken him,” Tetsuji drawls.

His father smiles, “Nothing that will leave him permanently damaged. He’ll bounce back in no time.” Those blue eyes, twin to his own, bears down on him. “Won’t you, Junior?”

Nathaniel opens his mouth to answer but Tetsuji beats him to it.

“We will not take your broken things. If he cannot play, then he cannot pay your debt.”

Later, many many nights later when Nathaniel had become Neil and his mind wasn’t clouded with pain and grief and _hate,_ he will remember this conversation. Will remember the way Tetsuji’s face had screwed up at the word debt and how Neil had felt his father tense in its wake. He will remember all of this and cement every detail to memory so that one day he would make them _pay_. But right now Nathaniel only scrunches his face in confusion as his gaze flicks from his father to Tetsuji and back again.

“He can play.” His father turns to him. “Get up.”

But he can’t; his body protests with every fiber of its being when he tries, until his hand slips and he collides once more with the unyielding ground.

“I said, _get up_.” His father reaches for him with such ferocity that his shoulder pops audibly as Nathan dislocates the joint. Or perhaps he popped it back into place. Regardless, his shoulder _burns_. But he stands.

“See?” His father’s grin is back. “If he can stand, he can play.”

Tetsuji clicks his tongue. “We shall see about that.”

He turns to Riko and Kevin, a sharp command in Japanese falling off his lips that has the boys standing ramrod straight before bowing and darting off the court. Nathaniel makes the mistake of turning to follow their path when his father grabs his face and forces him to meet his eye. He can still see flecks of blood under his fingernails (absently he wonders if it’s his mother’s or his).

“You live because you’re worth more to me alive than you are dead. The moment that changes, I carve you up like that bitch mother of yours. Only I won’t make it quick. I’ll take my time with you. I’ll spend _weeks_ with you, Junior.” He lets go, smile sweet and filled with promises of pain. “Don’t disappoint me now.”

And then his father _leaves_ and Nathaniel is left standing there reeling. _What did that all mean? Why does Tetsuji care if he can play? What do Riko and Kevin have to do with this? Why is he_ here _? Oh god, his mother is dead and he can still hear her screams as Nathan dug his knife into her over and over and over and-_

His thoughts are shattered by the clatter of equipment dropping at his feet. He blinks, stares at the shoulder pads, knee guards, and helmet then at Riko and Kevin who stand before him dressed for practice. And for some reason it doesn’t compute what that all means, so he’s left staring at them while his mother screams in his ear.

“Put it on,” Tetsuji demands.

Nathaniel blinks, not moving.

“I said put it on.”

He turns his head to Tetsuji, looks at the unnerving indifferent set of his face before reaching for the equipment. But he must still take too long for the man’s liking because the next thing he knows, Tetsuji’s cane collides with his back and the blow sends him sprawling to the floor.

“Get up.”

And with his limbs shaking and his vision dotting with white, Nathaniel stands.

“Put it on.”

He does, slowly — so so _slowly_. When he pulls on the last of the borrowed equipment, Tetsuji starts walking off the court without so much as a backwards glance, leaving him alone with Riko and Kevin on the inner court.

“Test him.”

The door slams shut and the lock clicks in place. Nathaniel looks from the door to Tetsuji to Riko and Kevin. Riko grins with glee.

The game that follows (if one could even call it as such) is nothing short of brutal. Kevin and Riko set themselves on a team opposite of him — running at him as strikers while he’s left playing backliner for two targets. Where most days, Nathaniel can at least keep up with one of the older boys, they absolutely slaughter a Nathaniel who can barely manage to hold his racquet let alone actually slam his body into theirs to get the ball. Too bad they don’t have the same problem. Riko in particular takes pleasure in slamming Nathaniel into the plexiglass walls every chance he got before tossing the ball to Kevin for a clear shot. Each and every time, Nathaniel crumples and folds while his mind begs him to stay down. But then they will be at his side to haul him back to his feet and line up to start again. And again. And again again again.

With each fall, Nathaniel contemplates not getting up, to just lie there and give up. He is _so tired,_ and his broken battered body feels _heavy_. He wants to fall and stay down no matter how many times they try to force him back up.

And then his eyes fall on Tetsuji. They meet that cold stare of indifference and disgust and Nathaniel burns in a new way. Rage fills his veins and for the first time in his life he feels true unadulterated _hatred_. For his father. For Tetsuji. For Riko and Kevin. They all want to see him fall and he refused to give them what they want any more.

So, he picks himself up, wipes the blood from his chin and smiles that very smile his father had given him moments before he dug his blades into his mother’s body — into _his_ body. He throws himself at Riko and Kevin. Again. Again. _Again_. Until he’s panting from the exertion and his vision goes hazy at the edges. But the smile never leaves and he never stays down.

He’s not good — it’s pathetic how little he can do to stop them even when his body isn’t begging him to stop — but he _refuses_ and goes and goes and goes until by sheer dumb luck his racquet catches Riko’s and blocks the pass Kevin has tossed his way. They freeze, watching in silence as the ball slowly rolls down the court, and for a moment none of them can believe it happened.

Nathaniel stares as it comes to a halt just before the goal on the opposite side of the court before looking at the two strikers. Kevin looks as surprised as Nathaniel feels but something like excitement simmers just beneath the surface. Riko looks furious, knuckles white against his racquet and an angry flush to his cheeks. The older boy takes one step forwards, racquet raising as if he’s about to bring it down on Nathaniel’s head, when the sharp tap of Tetsuji’s cane stops him.

The door clicks open and all three boys wait in baited silence as he crosses the court towards them. He pays no mind to either Kevin nor Riko, simply silently assess Nathaniel before nodding.

“You will play.” With that he turns and leaves the inner court once more. No one dares to speak in the silence he leaves behind, save for the soft taps of his cane echoing in the air. When he reaches the door, he lays his palm on the handle.

“Again.”

The door swings shut and they start again.

***

Nathaniel doesn’t know how long they continue to play. Somewhere between the fourth or fifth call from Tetsuji to start again, Nathaniel’s world begins to blur beyond the point of recognition. They must have stopped at some point because one moment he blinks his eyes and the next he’s in yet another unfamiliar room. Just like the last, this room is decorated in the same monochromatic style but where there was no differentiation between ceiling and wall and floor, this one sports splashes of red and white adorned on the furniture filling its space. A single bed rests against the wall with a dresser at its foot and a desk at its side acting as a nightstand. The room also sports two doors, one tightly shut and the other slightly ajar into what he guesses is an ensuite bathroom.

When he hauls himself to his feet to try the closed door, he’s unsurprised to find it locked from the outside. Unable to do little more than wait, he settles himself on the bed and tucks his knees under his chin. Time trickles by slowly as he glances around every inch of his new cell — memorizing every nook and cranny that could be useful in making his escape. Because he _will_ escape. His mother’s last instruction pounded in his chest even now.

Run. Run. Don’t look back. _Run_.

This time he’s not left to his thoughts for long, the door clicks open not ten minutes after he settled, and he turns his head towards his “guest.” Riko saunters in like he owns the place. Oddly enough, Kevin isn’t by his side as Nathaniel had come to expect but in looking for Riko’s shadow, he fails to notice the black piece of fabric in Riko’s hands until it is thrown at his face. He catches it mostly on reflex, fingers snatching the material out of the air before it can cover his face and obscure his vision. It’s silky in his hands and eerily cold.

“It seems you’ve passed the test,” Riko drawls, taking a few steps further into the room and closing the door. “You should feel honored.”

Nathaniel’s grip slackens and some of the fabric slips through his fingers, unfurling a blood red three and bold letters spelling out ‘Wesninski.’ Nathaniel’s heart stops as he stares at what’s in his hand.

“Welcome to my court Nathaniel.” Riko takes another step forward until he practically looms over him. “You will be my number three and I, your king.”

Nathaniel’s eyes immediately dart to the harsh line of black drawn under the boy’s left eye. The edges are soft, no doubt from the sweat of their practice and a shower afterwards, but the center remains as bold and stark as when he’d ran a sharpie down his cheek. Nathaniel thinks of the twin lines that adorned Kevin’s and wonders if soon he’ll be branded as well. At one point, that would have excited him — too long had he _dreamed_ of being accepted into their tight little circle — to _belong_ with them as brothers. Now, the thought fills him with dread as his gaze meets Riko’s.

He knows that look; knows it intimately like he knows the lines of his own face. It appeared too many times on Lola’s face when she cornered him alone while his mother was out. Saw it again when his father declared her in charge of “teaching” him the family business. Had seen it every time his father emerged from the basement after the muffled screams died to silence. Nathaniel knows that look and knows exactly what it means.

But the problem is that Riko is not his father and while his father may scare the shit out of him, Nathaniel has _never_ been afraid of Riko.

And he isn’t about to start now.

So Nathaniel looks his “king” dead in the eye and says, “ _No_.”

Riko only grins wider. “Oh, Nathaniel. We’re going to have so much fun together.”

He steps closer. Nathaniel doesn’t remember much after that. But it _hurt_.


	2. Then He Forged Himself Anew in the Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prologue pt.2. Neil is reborn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Man Oh man and I excited for y'all to read this chapter. There's this scene in here that literally made me write this fic. And of course, it only gets worse from here....
> 
> Enjoy!

Growing up in the Nest is hard. Between the rigorous schedule of practice and a bounty placed on his head by his “teammates,” Neil finds every day a battle between proving his worth as Tetsuji’s number three and fighting just to keep pace with everyone else. It becomes harder when he realizes that he is alone in his struggles — that everyone will gladly watch him fall rather than help. More than that they actively _hope_ he will. Neil sees it in their eyes every time he steps onto the court, sees it in the way they hungrily track the number on his back and the way they hiss it under their breath when he passes them in the hall or locker room.

Riko by far is the worst offender; he had taken it upon himself to hound Neil both on and off the court in hopes of breaking him — of making him bow and cower beneath his “king.” The boy thrived off of Neil’s continued defiance and where most would think it would wear Neil down, he blossomed under it — he forged himself anew in it, starting with his name.

Riko had knocked him to his knees one practice, racquet tipped towards his throat and a sneer on his face. “You will kneel like you are meant to, _Three_.”

Neil had merely stood back up and gritted his teeth in a parody of a smile, blood staining along his gums as he spit a pink glob at the boy’s shoes. “Kneel? I thought you were calling my name. I quite like the nickname. I think I’ll keep it.”

Neil will never forget the shade of red Riko had turned then. The broken nose had been worth it. Even more so when the other Raves started calling him Neil after the countless demands Riko made for him to kneel. He likes it, likes the way it cut his father from his name and embodies everything he won’t do for Riko — that he won’t _break_. But when Riko learns that demands alone won’t make Neil bend, he turns to his “lessons.”

These lessons consist of Riko slipping into Neil’s room and teaching him exactly what happens when he doesn’t cower and bend for his king — consist of torturing with knives and blows that make Neil see stars for days on end. Neil’s life once more becomes that of pain in every waking muscle of his body, permanent reminders of Riko’s lessons settling into his skin right alongside those of his father’s.

But Riko is far from Neil’s only problem or ever his most dangerous one. The Ravens prove themselves the bigger threat. The moment Tetsuji and Riko had brand that three on his back and make him a target for anyone hungry for a spot on Riko’s perfect court. It doesn’t matter that Neil is nowhere near their level or that he is several years their junior, that three meant he will always be above them in this twisted little court and they _hate_ him for it. So Neil learns to keep his head down — to grit his teeth and bear it until he can plot his escape from it all.

If Neil wants to survive, he will do it alone. That’s why when they kick his feet from under him as he walks in the halls, when they check him so hard that he sees stars, Neil picks himself and stays standing. A broken arm taught him that. Neil doesn’t break — can’t break. But oh, do they try.

The only one to come close is Tetsuji who Neil learns early on to pick his battles with. Where Riko is all brutal and immediate punishment, Tetsuji takes his time — is colder and more patient in his wait for Neil’s submission. He learned this in the weeks where Tetsuji withheld his mealtime in favor of extra practice to “make up for his mediocrity on the court.” Neil remembers how hollow his stomach felt and how his vision had spotted when he took a hit on the court. Everyday he thought it would end but he would get up the next day and it would start all over again. It lasted for almost two weeks.

Neil learned to call Tetsuji master.

At least to his face. In private, he maintains his defiance because despite how much they may think they’ve broken him, he vows that he never will. The first vow starts with Kevin. While the other want to see Neil fail, Kevin only wants him to match his expectations. Yes, the older boy can rarely be kind — and on most days, Neil feels the undeniable urge to strangle him — but at his core, Kevin is the only person Neil can consider an ally in the Nest. He is passion and dedication incarnate, coming to life under the harsh lights of the court and bestowing just a bit of that grace and ferocity to those lucky enough to play at his side.

And when he looks at Neil it is almost like he believes Neil can _be something_. Kevin doesn’t care about cruelty or sabotage; he lives for the integrity of the game. To disrespect it is to disrespect him. Compromise its integrity and you are no longer worthy of his time.

In a sea of hate and pain, this is the brightest light Neil clings to with all his being — and yes, it is careless, often to the point of cruelty, but Neil knows where he stands with Kevin and that if he was to be abandoned it would be because he isn’t good enough to keep up.

Yet, despite it all — despite the knives and vicious stares waiting for him to fail, Neil _loves_ exy. He loves it with all his being. He is _made_ for this game and he gives everything he has to it. It doesn’t matter what obstacle they throw in front of him or how ridiculous the demands they make of him, Neil _thrives_ on the court — every drill and lesson he swallows like they are air and he is suffocating. With every day they trap him here, he pays them back by improving his game at rapid speed until he flies down the court and through anyone that tries to stop him and _Neil loves every fucking second of it._

But love has no place in the Nest. Kevin is still loyal to Riko above everyone else and he lets that blind him to what really happens within its walls. Exy is still the ball and chain that keeps Neil locked up with the threat of death hanging over his neck should he fail; and it doesn’t change the fact that Neil has spent the last five years of his life in the Nest without a glimpse of open air.

Where Kevin and Riko have the privilege to leave as they please between school and press conferences to even the occasional ad campaign here and there, Nathaniel Wesninski ceases to exist to the world. Neil is nobody, someone who doesn’t even exist beyond the confines of these walls because no one had cared when Nathaniel had disappeared to — no one had cared _who_ Nathaniel was since he was ten years old, and the one person who did, died for it. So, Neil remained trapped within the Nest with its rotation of guards, its security clearances, and pin pads adorning every door and exit, and he _waits_. Riko and Kevin have little more than a year left before they officially join the Edgar Allen’s roster and Neil, with the three on his back, is destined to follow another two after that. Which means Neil had exactly three years before escaping would be impossible.

Neil waits and watches everything that will give him the edge he needs. He takes note of every guard shift, what keys go into whose hands, who watches him with blatant interest, who doesn’t bother to look at him at all, when the chimes of pins change every couple of months, _everything_. Neil waits and watches for the moment they slip, and he will seize the mistake and escape or die trying.

Yet it is because of these meticulous observations that Neil notices when the number of guards begins increasing and when they start circling the east tower that overlooked the court every hour or so when their afternoon practice is in full swing. He notices how Tetsuji’s knuckles are white where he grips the head of his cane a little too tightly; when his commands come out just a bit harsher and his demands that much more impossible, Neil concludes that whoever is watching in those towers was no one he cared to meet. Doubly so when Riko’s mood becomes volatile during these hours and Neil sees how his eyes consistently flicker up to that tower and its VIP box.

Now, Neil isn’t stupid. He knows what the Moriyama’s are, what they do beyond their presence in the exy world. In the five years that he’s been little more than their property, he’s picked up on enough of the nefarious business deals that happen in that tower and in the private lounges of the Nest during game days. He may have never learned the specifics, nor did he care to, but he knows enough that whatever it was it landed them in cahoots with his father. He knows it means that they are just as cruel and powerful as him too. Maybe more so. 

So, when these people start coming around the Nest, Neil keeps his head down and fades into the background as much as he can. He doesn’t ask questions, he doesn’t disobey, he just plays. Still, he can’t help but wonder _why?_ Because while these check-ins are nothing new, something about this one feels different.

Normally, these checks come once every few months where Tetsuji will slip away for a moment during practice and return like nothing has happened. The guards will leave, and everything will settle back to normal. Sure, Riko will be pissy for the next couple of days and everyone unlucky enough to cross his path feels the price of that visit, but they know that it will blow over.

This is the second visit this month and Tetsuji never leaves. The guards still circle the tower and Neil feels the tension in the air thicken enough to choke on. It lasts for five days, but still, they never leave. Whatever the reason for this visit, Neil wants to stay as far away from the aftermath as possible. For once, he keeps his mouth shut and plays the good little backliner they want him to be in hopes that when whoever it is in that tower does decide to make their move, Neil is the farthest thing from their mind — then maybe the feeling of eyes boring into his back will go away.

But of course, it doesn’t. Trouble had a way of finding Neil whether he searched for it or not which is why on the fifth day when a guard comes down from the tower and approaches Tetsuji, Neil doesn’t hold his breath for a miracle.

They are in the middle of a scrimmage, both sides pitted brutally against each other as they feed off the tangible tension in the air and the growing resentment for the cause behind it. Neil has already taken enough hits that not even 20 minutes into the game his bones ache and protest the heavy weight of his racquet.

Tetsuji calla for a halt and everyone freezes where they stand as the door flies open and their “master” calls out a terse, “Wesninski.”

Suddenly it is not just a pair of unknown eyes that Neil can feel on his back.

“ _To the East Tower_.”

Neil stares, not quite understanding the spat out Japanese but fearing the words all the same.

“ _Now_.”

Neil doesn’t waste a second more before unstrapping his helmet and jogging to the man and the guard that waits at his shoulder. He barely manages to set it down with his racquet before the guard turns on his heels and starts walking toward the inner stadium. Left with no choice but to follow, Neil scrambles to keep up as they silently make their way to the stairs leading up to the VIP box. With each step, Neil tries to think of what he has done to earn him the attention of whoever is in that room. He has been _so_ careful, making sure to keep his observations short and quick, as if nothing more than passing glances rather than the calculating studies. He kept no records beyond what he could memorize in his own mind. NO one should know what he is planning to do; they _can’t._

Three flights later and they step into a hall leading to a set of double doors with two guards stationed at either side. The one on the left nods to Neil’s guide before the one at the right raps his knuckles on the door. A sharp command in Japanese filters through, too quick and muffled for Neil’s rudimentary understanding of the language to grasp, though it must have been the go-ahead because the guards each push the doors open. His guide steps inside leaving Neil to follow. As he enters, he finds himself in front of a man not much taller than Kevin with his back to their entrance.

“Leave us,” the man says.

The guard does and closes the door behind him. In that moment, Neil knows that this man is dangerous. Only two kinds of people stand with their backs to potential enemies; those who were arrogant enough to think themselves indestructible and those who knew that they vastly outmatched the person at their back. Neil watches the line of ease in this man’s back, takes note of the slight bulge near the man’s left rib, and the hint of muscle through the man’s suit.

“Nathaniel Wesninski, the infamous number three. I have been watching you.”

It’s not a question so Neil remains silent.

The man turns, “Do you know why?”

It’s then that Neil recognizes the man for who he is — sees it in the facial features that echo within his younger brother, only where Riko’s felt sharp and angular, this man’s are elegant and cold. Neil’s throat clamps shut.

“Though perhaps we should start with an easier question. Do you know who I am, Nathaniel?”

“Yes, Ichirou Moriyama, my lord.” It’s a name he’s heard in cursed whispers only spoken low enough that you were sure Riko couldn’t hear it uttered.

“Good,” Ichirou almost purrs. “Now, why would I be watching you?”

Neil has no fucking clue but he wished Ichirous would save them both the trouble and just _not_. What comes out of his mouth is, “Checking in on your future investments.”

“No,” he shakes his head as if disappointed. “If that were the case, I would be here for the team not wasting my time on a child not yet on the roster. Try again. Why are _you_ the one up here?”

But Neil doesn’t _know_ and it _terrifies_ him.

“What makes you special, Nathaniel?”

And then it hits, even as he wishes it doesn’t. “My father.”

“Yes.” Ichirou walks closer then. “Imagine my surprise when I found out that my father’s Butcher owed us a rather large debt — one born from too many careless mistakes because he bit more than he could chew. Yet instead of severing his head and serving it on a platter as I would have, my father graciously offered yours a chance to repay that debt.”

Neil felt the blood in his veins freeze.

_If he cannot play then he cannot play you debt._

_He can play._

Neil didn’t know the full extent of what that exchange had meant then but now he was beginning to understand.

“Do you know why you are here, Nathaniel?”

Something tells Neil that Ichirou doesn’t mean this room anymore. “Because I’m good at exy?”

“No.” Another step. “ _We_ made you good. You simply had the potential we needed to do so. However, there are hundreds that have that same potential. Hundreds far less of a hassle than you have proven to be. So why you?”

Neil bites his lip on a primal scream of frustration. His temper would do him no favors here if he lost it. Instead Neil says nothing.

“Shall I give you a hint?” The next step puts him close enough that Neil must tilt his chin up to meet Ichirou’s eye. Neil doesn’t dare.

_You live now because you are worth more to me alive than you are dead_.

_He can play_.

“My father’s debt,” Neil whispers.

“Yes. You are your father’s repayment to us. You live to serve us in any way we see fit. Right now that means exy since, as you pointed out, you have the potential to be quite the investment. But the moment that does not prove to be true, we will place you somewhere that you are of some worth. We will do that over and over again until you are little more than a piece of trash with no use other than to dump in some hole.”

He looks down at Neil. “We own you, Nathaniel. That is what your father gave us and for his sake as well as yours, you better prove your worth.”

Neil listens. He listens to every word and lets them sink into every fiber of his being and hears the message hidden beneath them. He is a mere plaything to these people — something that entertains them for now but could easily be replaced and discarded if he pushed too hard. He is _theirs_ and as such, he will never be free. If he runs they will hunt him down and kill him.

Neil feels a bubble of hysteria in his chest. All those years of planning — five years of being so careful and storing away countless routines made _completely useless in a matter of minutes_. He wants to laugh. He wants to _scream_.

What comes out instead is, “So why are you here telling me this? I doubt the heir to the Moriyama clan would waste his time just to remind a _lowly piece of property_ his place.”

Neil regrets the words almost as soon as they leave his mouth but from the moment they pass his lips he can’t do anything to stop them. He wonders if he should be a bit more afraid of the fact that he just undeniably insulted the heir of the people who literally held his life in their hands.

It is sheer luck that Ichirou’s cold demeanor twitches in the barest hint of amusement before he takes a step back.

“Boredom mostly, but now I am curious about something.” Those eyes look him up and down once more before settling on Neil’s. “I think I will keep watching to see if my suspicions are correct.”

Neil shivers involuntarily.

***

If Neil thought meeting with a literal crime lord who told him he was property would be the _worst_ thing to happen to him that week, clearly he didn’t anticipate Riko’s reaction. In hindsight, it should have been obvious — Riko craved any sort of attention from his family, obsessed over it to the point that it gave him a complex. And here comes Neil, who is little more than a lackey in Riko’s eyes, getting a face-to-face meeting with the second highest ranking member of his family. To say he was furious was an understatement. Neil could barely lift his arms higher than a few inches without his body screaming in pain or his skin tugging on a fresh set of stitches. It didn’t stop there of course; Tetsuji also showed his disapproval by cutting Neil’s meals back to the barest minimum and assigning him extra practices that lasted well into the night after everyone had gone to bed. Supposedly it was to “fix” his aim. It didn’t matter that Neil could run through every Raven drill forwards, backwards, and blindfolded, if their “master” said practice, he must.

For two weeks Neil endured the starvation and exhaustion, pushed his swaying body through drill after drill until he would collapse in his room for a couple of hours and begin again for morning practice. _Two weeks_ before the circling guards and the heavy weight of eyes left and Neil could _breathe_.

Except he couldn’t really because Ichirou kept coming back. Month after month, he would show up, guards posted around the base of the East Tower, and a lone figure silhouetted in the window as they practiced. He never calls Neil up again — doesn’t say a word to anyone during his stay — but Neil can always feel his eyes on him wherever he goes.

_I’ll be watching_. The words feels like a noose around his neck.

Neil isn’t the only one who notices either. The Ravens start giving him a wide berth as if afraid that if they get too close, he will bring them down with him. If Neil thought one meeting would set Riko off, the continued attention drives Riko to cataclysm. Lessons become nightly activities, checks during practice grew harsher and more brutal until Neil has to claw his way up the plexiglass wall just to stay on his feet, and the crazed look in the boy’s eye grows more prominent with every visit.

Even Kevin starts keeping his distance after Riko shoves him hard enough to sprain his wrist for simply helping Neil up after a nasty check. He had to wear a brace for two weeks. It is the last time he ever stands between the two of them again.

Eventually, it gets to the point where even Neil’s stubborn will isn’t enough to keep him going anymore. He starts slipping in practice, his footwork turning sloppy, his shots erratic and aimless, and his body taking that much longer to pick itself off the floor. But even then, the punishments don’t stop — Tetsuji starts assigning solo practices to make up for the time he wastes on the court with his ineptitude. When the rest of the team is dismissed, Neil stands on the court with Tetsuji’s direct attention for hours on end before the coach declares himself satisfied and orders Neil to clean up the court. Some nights he will leave Kevin or Riko in charge if he was too busy to bother. Riko is just as cruel while Kevin makes an attempt to help improve Neil’s game. Most nights it ends in a screaming match between the two boys because Neil can’t match the standard Kevin sets.

It is one of those nights when things finally hit a breaking point. Neil’s jersey is plastered to his chest and back and his arms hang heavy at his side while he desperately tries to cling onto his racquet if only to save himself another of Kevin’s rants. He watched as the older Raven storms through the court’s doors and slams them shut so it echoed in the air. Neil closes his eyes then and breathes, the movement harder than it should be with the growing sense of hunger pulling from his stomach and the lethargy weighing down his bones. When he opens them again only a couple of minutes have passed. He still has an hour left.

Sighing, he turns back to the lined-up cones. Maybe if he glares hard enough at them, they would fall over themselves. He shifts the glare to the East Tower hoping the same for Ichirou. The door slamming open startles him from trying.

Where he expects to see a raging Kevin storming in for another round, two broad figures fill the doorway instead, their arms folded across their chests and dangerous smirks on their lips. Reacher and Johnson. Neil recognizes them instantly, the two older are Riko’s favorite lackies when he needs extra muscle to hold Neil down or simply wants someone to torment Neil in his absence.

“Well well, lookie at what we’ve got here, Johnson,” Reacher leers the smirk on his lips widening, “Wesninski all by his lonesome just for us.”

They take a step further into the court locking the door behind them.

“Must be our lucky night,” Johnson grins.

Neil grips the racquet tighter and takes a step back. “Fuck off, I don’t have time for you.”

“Sure you do.” Another step forward. Another back.

“It’s not like anyone is out here supervising you,” Reacher does a little spin. “Who’ll know if you take a little break?”

Neil’s back hits the wall. He’s trapped. It’s a familiar song and dance: they talk and taunt and corner him with nowhere to run before they reach for him and it’s game over. Neil’s done this so many times that he knows with every step they are trying to get a rise out of him — trying to incite fear. But Neil has known fear and these assholes weren’t up to par.

“With attitudes like that it’s no wonder you two are stuck at double digits.” Neil tilts his head at Reacher. “How much does it sting to know you’re only starting backliner because the person they actually want is four years your junior and half your size? I bet that hurts your already fragile ego.”

He looks to Johnson. “Yours too but at least Reacher gets to play. I’ll be surprised if you ever see the court by the time even _I_ join the team. Then again, when I’m there they’ll have no use for you.”

The look of fury on their faces warns Neil of the first punch but even as he ducks to avoid it, he’s not fast enough to dodge the second. His head slams against the wall from the impact and he sees stars. He shakes his head to clear his vision but they’re on him in seconds, throwing punch after punch even as he gives back as good as he gets — clawing, biting, and throwing himself against anything that comes close enough to reach. Eventually they go sprawling onto the court floor, Neil’s racquet knocked from his grip and sent skidding out of reach.

Johnson is on top of him, Reacher standing just above Neil’s head holding a bloody nose as Neil tries to buck his partner off. He thrashes wildly and with every ounce of power he has left but the boy’s weight is too much for his battered body to budge. Johnson punches him in the face once more, slamming Neil’s cheek into the floor hard enough to daze him and stop the thrashing once and for all. With Neil still, he grabs a fist full of hair and leans down to hiss in his ear.

“You think you’re so tough but look at you now, all pretty underneath me.”

Neil stills for a whole different reason.

“I bet you won’t be so uppity after I get through with you. I’ve got special privileges tonight, Wesninski, and I’m going to make them last for as long as I can.”

He presses his hips down into Neil’s so he can feel the hard line of his intentions. Neil starts thrashing with renewed desperation. He wasn’t prepared for this — hadn’t thought someone would go this far, that _Riko_ would go this far. Knives he was used to, torture he could handle, but _this_ Neil was woefully unprepared for. So, he bucks and wiggles and kicks trying desperately to get Johnson off of him any way he can.

For all his attempts he manages to knee Johnson hard in the thigh, but it only buys him an inch of movement before the older boy grips him again, this time turning him on his stomach. Neil struggles harder.

“Get his fucking legs and pin him,” Johnson yells at his partner, who hobbles over to help.

Neil kicks at him as he approaches but after a few hits, Reacher manages to grab his ankles and pin them to the floor, completely immobilizing Neil’s lower half. When it becomes apparent that he won’t be able to twist free, Neil directs his energy to hitting Johnson, but with the boy on his back, Neil has no hope of reaching him.

“I like it when they fight,” Johnson coos in his ear, causing a shiver of dread to race through Neil’s body.

Desperate, he begins looking for _anything_ to help him escape, but the ruins of cones lay scattered out of reach on the otherwise empty court. He looks to the door and the empty hall beyond it, willing for anyone to come. He looks at the dark East Tower. But Neil is on his own. No one is coming to help.

Neil will have to save himself.

He looks to the racquet laying just off to the side and starts reaching for it — hand outstretched desperately in hopes that the precious inch he gained would be enough to reach.

“I’m going to make you kneel like how Riko always wanted you to. And then I’m going to make you _scream_.”

Neil reaches and reaches and reaches and—

His fingers touch the handle.

With a roar, he wraps his hand around it and swings his torso around to smash the racquet into Johnson’s head too fast for him to see it coming. He crumples in a heap off to the side.

“What the fuck?” Reacher’s surprise loosens his grip on Neil’s legs enough for him to rip one free and kick him off.

Blood pounding in his ears, Neil scrambles to his feet, using the racquet for support when his knees shake too hard to keep him standing. Reacher’s shock wears off quick as he glances at his fallen partner with Neil standing over them. He charges at the smaller boy but Neil is ready for him. This time he grips the racquet in both hands and swings it with all his might into the boy’s side. There is a deafening crack before Reacher cries out and falls to the ground clutching his arm.

But Neil’s not done — war is pounding in his head and drumming in his chest as he brings the racquet down again and again over his leg, his chest, his arm, until all he hears is screaming and the sound of bones breaking. It takes him a minute to realize that the screams are coming from his own throat and that Reacher isn’t moving anymore. He drops it, it’s white net stained pink from blood. It’s not until someone clears their throat that Neil realizes they are no longer alone.

Turning his head towards the court door he sees the guard that first took him up to the East Tower.

“The Lord will see you now.”

For a moment, the words don’t register. Neil just stares at him before looking to the tower that still sits dark above the court. Then his gaze drops down to the battered body of Reacher at his feet and the still form of Johnson with a small puddle of blood seeping from under his head. Absently, he wonders if it will leave a stain.

“Now.”

Neil steps over Reacher and moves to follow without a word. As they make their way up the familiar set of stairs leading to the tower, he wonders vaguely if he should be afraid that he’s walking toward his death. Truthfully, Neil can’t feel much of a goddamn thing other than regret that if he’s about to die, he didn’t drag Reacher and Johnson down with him.

As they reach the set of double doors, no guards are posted at the sides and instead of knocking, his guard opens the door and gestures for Neil to enter. He goes, the door closing with a soft click behind him. He waits, eyes trained on the figure lounging on the couch with a glass of amber liquid sloshing around a ball of ice.

Ichirou’s posture is relaxed, his pristine clothes slightly rumpled and his sleeves rolled to his elbow to reveal a mountain range on his forearm. Neil would almost think the tattoo pretty if not for the harsh lines of black, stark against the man’s pale complexion. He trails his eyes back up, takes in the unbuttoned collar and the tousle of hair brushed back and decides Ichirou looks much too relaxed for a man who just watched Neil nearly beat two of his players to death with a stick.

“Sit.”

Neil does.

“Do you know what I see when I look at you Nathaniel?” He turns the drink and the ice clinks against the glass. “What made me so curious to watch you like I have over these past few weeks?”

Neil stays silent.

“It was your tenacity, the way you grit your teeth and kept going even when you should not. I saw the way you picked yourself up after every hit, every punch, and smile in the face of those who wished to see you fail.”

He meets Neil’s eye.

“It reminds me in a way of your father. You two have the same look in your eyes when someone tells you to back down.”

Neil flinches, Ichirou takes a sip of his drink.

“Tell me, Nathaniel, what do you know of my family?”

It takes a moment before Neil can find his voice. “Your family is involved with the mafia. You use exy and the Ravens as your cover up.”

“Close, but no.” He sets the glass down. “We don’t work _with_ the mafia, we _run_ the mafia.”

Neil stills.

“My family comes from a long line of Japanese yakuza who spent centuries creating the empire I stand on top of today. Drugs, guns, women, underground fights, you think of it and we have hands in it all. Nothing exists outside our purview. We run the world’s biggest and most international yakuza, and a few years ago my father set his eyes on America as our latest venture. It just so happened that my uncle and that Day woman founded this silly little sport you play, and it gained enough popularity to become useful to us. Not only did my father see the opportunity to gain a foothold, he capitalized the sport into something profitable enough to fund the expansion of our empire even further.

“Do you know why it is my father that runs this empire and not my uncle? Why I will be the one to run it after him and why Riko will rot away here like my uncle currently does?”

Neil almost dreads the answer. “No.”

“It is because that honor belongs to the first son, like myself and you, not some _spare_ born just in case the unthinkable happens. So, I will rule while my uncle and Riko will stay here at the Nest and serve me until they no longer prove useful.”

He gives Neil an intense look.

“And they better prove useful because when I inherit my father’s position, I will be cleaning house. Too many sloppy mistakes have been made over the last few years — mistakes that have cost my father and I money. While he may be content on losing that revenue in wake of securing our position here more firmly, _I_ look to expand further — to extend our reach beyond even this continent. Take the Hartfords in England for example. Now they are settled deep in the UK with roots indiscernible from those of the government while still maintaining control all over Europe.”

At the mention of the Hartfords, Neil sits up a little straighter. It had been years since he heard that name — since his mother had whispered it in his ears as he traced the antler tattoos on her collar bones.

Ichirou continues on, oblivious to his sudden interest. “The Moriyamas could do that — will do so if we manage to purge the clan of those who are more trouble than they are worth, like the Butcher.”

And then it clicks in place. “My father.”

“Yes, your father. Nathan Wesninski, while effective in his results, is often sloppy in his execution. He may fancy himself a butcher, but his propensity for dramatics calls too much attention onto himself and thus onto us. We cannot keep cleaning up the messes he and his little band of murderers keep making. We need someone less about maintaining a silly moniker and more about getting the job done quickly and quietly. That is what will help us move forward with expanding.”

_It reminds me of your father_.

Neil feels sick.

“You want me to be your butcher.”

Ichirou smiles, “So clever, Nathaniel.” He leans forward, eyes never leaving Neil’s. “Yes. Become my butcher and pledge yourself to me as your father has done to mine. In exchange, I will give you the protection only those in the main branch can offer. My uncle and Riko will no longer be able to touch you, nor will anyone else. Anyone who dares will end up much like those boys you left bleeding out on the court. I’ll even let you continue playing this silly little game if you so desire.

“In exchange all I ask is for your loyalty and your vow that you will aid me in cleansing the clan and removing those in my way, including your father. I even suspect you will enjoy that, especially since he is the reason you are here in the first place.”

He pauses. “And for what he did to your mother.”

This time when Neil flinches, it’s hard enough to push him further into his seat. “How-”

Ichirou smirks, “Oh yes, I know all about how Nathan murdered Mary Hartford the night he dragged you into the nest. It caused quite the rift between my family and hers even after I had worked so hard to broker an agreement with them to help our expansion across the Atlantic. Turns out they are loyal to a fault towards their own and murdering their sister did little to endear them to us. But should you join me, perhaps they will be more amicable to renegotiating those terms.”

Neil stares, unsure of what to say in response to all that Ichirou had revealed and the pure seduction of his offer. He would be lying if he says he was not tempted by Ichirou’s words — they held every desire, every deep dark thought Neil had buried inside himself from the moment his father left him here to pay his debt. Neil dreamed of revenge, of tearing into his father and making him _scream_ as he had made his mother. He dreamed of taking Riko’s racquet and smashing it down on his head over and over again until his skull caved in and that fucking number one was beyond recognition. He wanted to stand over Tetsuji and lord over the fact that he couldn’t touch him anymore — that he didn’t break Neil even after all he did to try.

With Ichirou’s deal, he can have all that and _more_. Ichirou is promising him not only the power he needs to make them all pay, but the chance to make sure he will never again find himself powerless to others. Neil could be _unstoppable._

But then he’d be his father.

As much as Neil craves vengeance, as much as rage burns in his blood for what everyone had done to him — what they tried to have Johnson and Reacher do to him, he swore to himself that he would never be the butcher his father always pushed him to be. It was the one thing his mother had tried to save him from, what she died trying to prevent.

So he looks at Ichirou and tells him, “No.”

The disappointment in the older man’s face is prominent as he shakes his head. “That is not the answer I hoped to hear.”

“It is the one I am giving you, my lord. I won’t be my father, even if it means his destruction.”

The answer only seems to disappoint him more. “You are making a mistake, one born from rash thought and fear rather than logical reasoning. That is my mistake.”

Ichirou stands then and walks over to Neil’s seat. “I will give you one week. One week before I return again for your answer. And when I do, you will see the wisdom in my offer and bow yourself to me. If only to save yourself.”

Neil tilts his head up to meet his stare defiantly. “No offence, my lord, but I’ve been surviving by myself for years without your help. My answer will be the same.”

For a second Neil thinks he overstepped as Ichirou’s face goes completely blank at the remark before settling into a neutral look of slight amusement.

“Take the week regardless. You will see my way in the end.”

Neil didn’t think that was likely but he bowed his head anyways. “Yes my lord.”

***

Despite his early convictions, Neil does consider Ichirou’s offer. He would have been a fool not to. For once someone was extending their hand to _help_ rather than criticize or push him further down. Ichirou had even demonstrated that power when he cleaned up the mess Neil had made with Johnson and Reacher, the players removed from the Nest without a single word or drop of blood left behind. When Tetsuji found out, he turned his ire to Neil, raising his cane at him in the middle of the common room when a guard stepped in and grabbed it.

A command from the main branch, he had called it; Neil would have called it a warning. After that Tetsuji gave him a wider berth when the guards were around, Riko made to do the same when his uncle reprimanded him for checking Neil a little too hard during one practice in full view of the East Tower. It was only a taste of that power but Neil could already feel the gravity of its addiction. _Safe_ was never a feeling he had growing up, and while what Ichirou offered wasn’t exactly safety — Neil’s pretty sure accepting the deal would paint a bigger target on his back — it was the closest thing he would get in this life. Not quite safety but perhaps security.

And he only has to sell his soul to get it.

That was the price Ichirou asked for, no matter how prettily the man dressed it up with promises of power and protection. Neil would only be trading one devil for the next. At least with the Nest he knows who his enemies are — knows how they operate and what they want of him. Ichirou wanted war and with war came countless faceless enemies that Neil had no hope of keeping up with.

So he resolves himself to staying with the devil he knows rather than the one unknown. Even when Riko’s lessons carves his skin to ribbons. Even when Tetsuji’s punishments start chipping away at him little by little. Even then, he resolves to stay. Day after day, he is forced to bow his head or sink to his knees and push his body to its utter limits until he collapsed at their feet. He grits out the words master and king, until his voice is hoarse and his vision spotted, but even then he gets back up. Time and time, he stands back up and smiles and spits at their feet because _fuck them_.

And then one day, it stops.

For two whole days, Neil is left alone — No Riko, no extra practices, no illegal checks from his fellow Ravens, _nothing_. It sets off every warning bell Neil has but he can’t figure out what _it_ is. Riko and Kevin left on some ad campaign where they were shooting in New York with Nike; Tetsuji had accompanied them while he left the team with several assistant coaches; and as far as Neil could tell, the East Tower sat empty. Neither of those things sooth the feeling of dread that creeps up his throat. Neil goes through the Nest with one eye over his shoulder and his head ducked low to avoid any and all trouble heading his way.

Of course it didn’t work.

Neil steps onto the court for a late-night practice (too wary to skip them even if those who enforced them were unlike to know if he did) when he realizes that he isn’t alone. Before he can whirl around and break for the door, someone is pushing him deeper onto the court and slamming the exit behind him, the audible click of its lock like a gunshot. He hits the floor hard, his knees catching the brunt of the fall though he can barely feel the pain over the sheer adrenaline spiking his system. Scrambling back to his feet, he faces his assailant.

Lola, pretty read lips curve into a smile sharp enough to cut, stares back. She presses a kiss to the glass and Neil’s heart stops. That smile only grows as she raises a perfectly manicured finger to tap against the barrier between them and points behind him. For a second, Neil thinks about not turning, that if he doesn’t look, he can pretend for a little longer that _he_ isn’t here.

“Junior.”

But life was never so kind. Neil turns.

His father looks older, his hair a bit longer and grey, fine lines at the corner of his eyes and smile, and a couple scars across his knuckles that Neil doesn’t remember being there. Even so, he remains the picture perfect image of the nightmare of his childhood.

“Get over here.”

Neil’s feet remain frozen to the ground.

“ _Now, Junior_.”

Shakily, he complies, taking step after step closer to his father even when his mother’s voice starts screaming in his head to run run run run run. But he can’t. Not then and not now with Lola at his back and his father at the heart of the court. He is trapped.

His father is not a tall man, not like some of the older Ravens that towered over Neil at practice, not like Kevin, who liked to lord his height over Neil in a teasing manner. Neil himself had grown in the five years since they’ve been apart, his father standing maybe five inches taller than him now, but even then he _looms_ over Neil.

“Hello Junior,” he smiled.

It is pure conditioning that Neil manages to return the greeting as his throat closes off. “Father.”

He tries to keep his tone steady but it must not work because his father’s eyes glimmer and that smile widens. “Oh Junior, it seems you have manners left after all. And here I thought I would have to teach them to you all over again.”

He takes a step closer. “Looks like we can jump straight into the good stuff.”

Another step.

“A little birdie told me that you think you’re too good for everyone here — that you’ve been making yourself a nuisance to your betters.”

He looms.

“I’ve taught you better than that, Junior. Perhaps you need a refresher.”

Every nerve in Neil’s body screams for him to move — to take a step back, to run, but he stands frozen as a slow stretching hand reaches for him. He looks into those glee-filled eyes and that too sharp smile and _knows_ that the moment that hand lands on his body it means nothing more than pain. _Run run run run run run RUN!_

But he _can’t_.

That hand reaches for him and Neil _burns_.

***

His father leaves him in a crumpled heap in the middle of the court — body broken and battered with barely enough energy to draw in a stilted breath of air and let it out in a shaky wheeze. Neil lays there watching his blood pool beneath himself and coat the shiny hardwood floor in a deep red that soaks through his hair and jersey until it turns the white letters a rusty pink. He lays there and thinks about how he can’t feel a fucking thing. It is all white noise.

And then the court doors opens, and echoes of footsteps fill the air as a figure slowly approaches him from behind. Neil watches a familiar pair of black sneakers stop just before the puddle of blood.

“Look at you now,” Riko smirks as he crouches down. “I told you that you will bow before me. And what a pretty picture you make.”

Neil just stares as Riko grabs a fist full of his hair and yanks his head back until their eyes meet. “Did you think you were special? That just because my brother called you up to that tower that _you meant something?_ You mean nothing. _You are nothing but mine_.”

He digs his thumbnail into the flesh just below Neil’s left eye. “Nothing but my precious number three. It’s about time we make it official.” He lets go and Neil drops to the floor. “I’ve called in my artist. He’ll be here first thing in the morning to tattoo the proof of your status.”

Riko stands. “You better get used to being beneath me because that’s all you’ll ever be, Nathaniel.”

The grin on his face is nothing short of manic. Neil says nothing, just stares blankly at the blood begins to deepen in hue as it dries around the edges. If Riko is bothered by the lack of response he doesn’t show it because he smiles and walks off the court.

“Oh and Nathaniel, do clean up before you leave. We have practice in the morning.”

The laugh echoes long after the door slams shut behind him, bouncing off the walls and reverberating in his bones. It feels like a death sentence. It feels like _losing_.

Neil is never going to win. Not when it matters — the last five years meant nothing. He couldn’t run, couldn’t fight back, couldn’t defy them for long because he will always end up right back here: broken, battered and bleeding alone in this god-forsaken court. It didn’t matter if he kept getting back up — if he fought tooth and nail to remain on his feet — _it isn’t enough_. Neil isn’t enough.

Not alone.

Broken, battered, bleeding and numb, Neil picks himself up and hobbles back to his room, ignoring the puddle of blood still sitting on the court and the steady trail that follows him down the hall. When the next morning comes and a guard waits for him at his door, he doesn’t say a word as he follows him up the East Tower. By now the journey is familiar.

Ichirou waits for him when Neil steps through the door, dressed as always in an impeccable suit, whiskey glass in hand as he surveys Neil with a critical glance. Neil knows what he sees, a uniform tattered and stained with day-old blood and the blossoming of a black eye on the left side of his face. But he doesn’t say a word, simply set his glass down and folds his hands under his chin.

“Have you thought about my offer?”

“Yes.”

Ichirou stares intently. “Will you be my Butcher, Nathaniel?”

“No.” Neil sees the moment Ichirou shuts down on him, the flash of disappointment and ire at being denied. But before either can settle too deeply, Neil pushes on. “The Butcher is my father. The title is messy and ineffective and disloyal as he has proven himself to be time and time again. The Butcher is a _failure_.”

He meets Ichirou’s intensity. “I will not be my father. I won’t fail.”

Ichirou leans back. “Then what, Nathaniel, will you be if not my Butcher?”

“You said I reminded you of my father and you’re right. I am like my father. Death and pain follow me wherever I go. It’s in my veins. Your brother and uncle want to stifle that for their game — want to make me their number three and their perfect little player that obeys and cowers under their rule.”

Neil pauses.

“I will give you something better, something they want but can never have. I will be your number four.”

Neil’s Japanese is rudimentary at best; what little he grasped of the language came from snippets caught during practices or crudely interpreted from Tetsuji’s tone and gestures. Even so, Neil quickly learned that the number four was seen as some kind of omen. No Raven ever bore the number four on their jerseys, nor did the rooms. A quick google search had told Neil why. _Shi_ , the sound of death. Perfect for the son of the Butcher.

When Ichirou doesn’t speak, Neil thinks he made a mistake. And then the man stands.

“Is this your answer, Nathaniel?”

“Yes.” It feels final when it leaves his tongue.

“Very well then.” He turns his head and barks out a harsh line of Japanese.

The doors swing open a second later as two guards haul in a man struggling against their hold. Their faces remain blank even as the man kicks and screams and begs. When they reach the center of the room, they dump him before Ichirou and in turn Neil. That close he sees the battered state of the man. He barely spares Neil a glance as he proffers himself before the Moriyama heir, climbing to his knees and pressing his face to the ground in a groveling bow. Japanese rushes from his lips too fast and too slurred for Neil to make sense of but even then, he knows this man is begging for his life.

Ichirou does not give him so much as a glance before turning back to Neil. He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a silver pistol which he offers to Neil. “Prove it.”

Neil stares at the weapon. “What did he do?”

No answer, just the gun held out and the rushed pleas of a begging man. Neil takes the gun and flicks off the safety. The man at their feet begins wheezing, still pressed flat on the ground before Ichirou. Neil levels the aim at the man and meets Ichirou’s eyes.

He pulls the trigger.

The begging stops as the man slumps to the ground fully. Neil hands the gun back to Ichirou who passes it to one of the guards. With a short bow, they take the gun and exit, leaving just Neil, Ichirou, and the body of an unnamed man growing cold at their feet.

Ichirou steps closer to Neil then, taking his chin in hand and tilting it up to meet his eye. “My number four you say?”

A thumb brushes over the spot Riko had dug his fingernail into. The mark had barely begun to fade when Neil looked at it this morning.

“Yes that will do just nicely I believe. Not my Butcher but my Shinigami.”

Neil knew that name too. _Death bringer_.

“Takeshi,” Ichirou calls.

Neil’s guide enters the room, “Yes my lord?”

“Bring me my brother’s tattoo artist.” He brushes over the mark once more. “I’ve need of his services.”

***

The East Tower is dark as Neil stands alone looking over the empty court below. A bandage adorns his left cheek in his reflection and his face is illuminated by the soft glow of the cellphone resting in his hand. He stares at the screen for a second more before dialing the number and listening to it ring.

It connects almost immediately.

“Who the fuck is this and how did you get this number?” The voice is brash and short even as the words melt together in a British lilt that reminds him of his mother’s accent.

“I was told to call this number if I ever needed help.”

“By who?”

Neil stares at his eyes looking back at him in the near pitch black window. His father’s eyes.

“My mother, Mary Hartford.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That my ladies and gents is the end of the prologue. Next chapter we finally begin the tale, starting with everyone's favorite drugged-goalie....


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